


Stream

by Kryptaria



Series: Tales from the Northwest [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Northwest Passage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ficlet set in the Northwest Passage 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pati79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pati79/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Ручей (Stream)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/821989) by [Rimmaara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimmaara/pseuds/Rimmaara)



Struggling to breathe through the cold, damp scarf over his face, Sherlock stared at what had, only weeks earlier, been the sprightly stream where John occasionally would go fly fishing. A corner of his mind raced through what he’d learned of fly fishing, which primarily boiled down to the absolute stupidity of standing there waving metal hooks about one’s head in hopes of attracting a fish.

“Well? Come on,” John said, slogging ungracefully forward, through snow that was up to his knees. He walked in a slight crouch, bent forward to balance the weight of his pack.

“There must be a —” Sherlock began, before he stopped himself. There was no bridge. There was no proper crossing with a textured cement path and handrails. There wasn’t even a human-built improvised crossing of stepping stones. There was only this: nature at its most brutally raw, determined to take its toll from the pitifully unprepared humans who dared to challenge her.

Inwardly he cringed. He was anthropomorphising nature. Next, he’d be writing poetry.

Not that they were both unprepared. John had made it into the stream and turned back, chapped lips stretched in a broad grin that highlighted his wind-reddened cheeks. “Come on, Sherlock,” he urged, holding out a hand made thick and clumsy by his winter gloves.

“John…” Sherlock stared down at the rocks, at the water splashing and breaking upon them like shards of smashed glass, and could all too easily picture the water running bright red with blood. He had never hesitated before, but his world had been the battlefield of London, of high buildings and swaying fire escapes and narrow catwalks.

John’s expression turned sympathetic. “It’s okay. We can go back —”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head, thinking that this time next year, John would be facing his demons in London. Here and now, could Sherlock do any less?

He took a deep breath and followed John’s tracks through the broken snow. The thick treads of his boots were barely enough to keep him from falling, but somehow, he made it down the rocky bank.

John caught his outstretched hand before he could stumble and go to his knees in the icy water. Strong, steady John held him while he found his footing.

“Ready?” John asked. Dark blue eyes danced with life and pleasure.

Sherlock smiled. “Always,” he said, and followed John across, into the unknown wilderness.


End file.
